Apr 292017
 

(Photo source here)

The production of Caligula I saw  recently has been on my mind on-and-off for the past few weeks.

In the play, Caligula is always there, always speaking. He acts and defines the actions of the people around him. While I was watching, I focused on what he said, what he thought about, what he discovered and did. How could I not? I also took his preoccupations as if they were synonymous with the play, and as I thought back to the play later, I continued in the same vein.

But I’ve decided Caligula isn’t Caligula.

Caligula gives us a character who achieves a point-of-view and is convinced of its essential rightness as something greater than simply himself. Thanks to his position (as emperor, as protagonist), he has the power to push that view beyond himself and onto his subjects (the Romans, the spectators). Over the course of a performance, we watch as the people around him are slowly erased from their own lives and made less than human. Some become converts (Caligula’s certainty in his vision is not non-religious). Others die. Everyone suffers miserably.

I don’t know what Camus has said about his text, but with time to reflect, I see more clearly its preoccupation with moral certitudes, both religious and secular, and with the suffering they inflict. I also think that the play invites misrecognition of it’s concerns as part of its poetic strategy.

Which obviously brings me back to that set I hated so much in the production I saw—the one that hid all the bit players under a black box or pushed them to the front of the stage where Caligula was pacing and raving—I’ve begun to think it’s an elegant and expressive engagement with the problem I now think this play is presenting to it’s audience. The cheaper your seats and the farther you are away form the stage, the quicker and more often the bit players disappear from view. The people sitting at Caligula’s feet won’t see this at all, even though they probably think they see everything clearly.

A set that makes not seeing visible and then comments on that not seeing in terms of both a spectator’s physical situation within the theatre and their proximity to the protagonist is operating thematically.

 April 29, 2017  Theatre Logs Tagged with: ,
Apr 242017
 

Kenneth Anger’s Fireworks was one of the first films I fell in love with when, in my first semester of film school, I started watching American Underground film from the mid-century. After saw it, I spent a good five, six months obsessing over his small body of films.

Over the years, I’ve seen and liked a lot more underground films of the period, some of them better, but none of them have managed to dislodge this film from it’s pride of place. It’s too knowing and too young at the same time to be anything but wonderful.

At home and in a mood I found myself watching it tonight alongside Genet’s objectively better Chant d’amour.

 April 24, 2017  Movie Logs Tagged with: ,
Apr 222017
 

I stumbled across this short dance film years ago. I hadn’t seen it since, but for some reason, tonight I sat down and watched it, and I was as moved by it now as I remember being then.

The film, a montage of long shots, close-ups and tableaux organized by a shared dance and the rhythms of the soundtrack, has a cast of six dancers in three couples: a man in a suit and woman in a dress, a gay couple in sweats and marcels, and a young straight couple wearing underwear.

The film aims to be beautiful, romantic and sexy simultaneously. It rains continuously, so how could it possibly miss its mark?

 April 22, 2017  Movie Logs Tagged with:
Apr 152017
 

 

There are few things in nature that astonish me more or that I find more beautiful than the simple impossibility of a bird’s nest.

 April 15, 2017  Moments Tagged with:
Apr 152017
 

This is the second of James Purdy’s novels that I’ve read and I was not prepared for how different it would be from the first in style.

This novel begins as the narrator’s elderly husband tries to recover from a stroke. This event has brought his eventual death into view and Carrie, his younger and extremely deferential wife, copes by turning her attention to her memories of her long-dead daughter, a successful artist. The narrative is Carrie’s memoir telling of her coming-into-herself as a person as she steps out of her cloistered, conservative home to investigate her daughter’s sexual adventures and to understand her bohemian life.

As the story begins, Carrie is like soft clay, untouched by anything except her own sense of her untouchedness. As she meets other people—first her sister-in-law, then a man-hating Elizabethan obsessed with Edmund Spencer, and finally a man who reminds her of her first love but who was one of her daughter’s lovers—as she meets these people, she receives their way of being in the world into herself. She is not, however, adrift. What others mistake as impressionability and lack of identity is in fact a budding openness to life made possible by her not-yet-defined and not-yet-understood (but still weighty and valuable) sense of herself as having a self. At the end of the novel, Carrie is sensitive, loving, and strong.

This solid simplicity does not exhaust, however, the sophistication of the text we’re given. Although written in Carrie’s plain voice—simple sentences, naive diction, stacks of short paragraphs—the text is run-through with allusions to the myth of Persephone and The Fairie Queen. The resulting complexity of this memoir is extreme. There are echoes and repetitions and allusions galore. This complexity may not be Carrie’s alone—Purdy’s voice is there too, the allusions may belong to him—but it isn’t not Carrie’s voice either and so her simpleness can be read—at least possibly—as a bright reduction of life to essentials. In some of the best moments, this reduction manifests the dark clarity of a dream. All of this is handled with such a sureness and lightness of touch that the book reads as small and particular even though it is also, simultaneously, a heady meditation on the artist’s creation of the self.

As was the case in In a Shallow Grave, the ending here is happy, self-consciously so. But Carrie has earned her happiness in a way that the war veteran in that earlier novel hadn’t. I think the other characters are lucky to have her in their lives.

Shifting gears, this novel reminded me during long stretches of Washington Square. This in turn made me think of Wright Morris, a now more-or-less forgotten mid-century novelist I read a lot of in the 90s. My sense of him then was that many of his novels were working through the style and subjects of his immediate predecessors, Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, Wolfe, etc. Purdy is a much better writer than Morris and possess a much stronger point of view. But given the way both Purdy’s novels evoked other works for me, I’m curious to what extent the stylistic differences in the two I’ve read might be the sign of a similar hearkening back and working though.

 April 15, 2017  Book Logs Tagged with: